


Claiming Red

by aohatsu



Series: Red Riding Hood [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing, Knotting, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 13:50:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aohatsu/pseuds/aohatsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek takes Stiles home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Claiming Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hatteress (goddammitstacey)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddammitstacey/gifts).



“So,” Stiles says, nodding his head and tapping his fingernails against his knee. He hasn’t put pants on yet, but the skirt isn’t really helping with the fact that there’s still sticky wetness between his thighs. At first that was kind of a turn on, because really, but now it’s just kind of gross and he wants to take a shower. “Derek,” he tacks on, Derek not taking the hint where he’s sitting in the drivers’ side. Driving.  
  
Derek glances at him then though, before looking back at the road in front of them. He’s pretending to be all ‘Eyes on the road!’ and safety-cautious, but Stiles isn’t sure Derek actually knows what the word ‘safety’ means, so he isn’t fooled.  
  
This is about the sex, and maybe the skirt, and the fact that they’re still in his jeep, which still smells like sweat and sex and if it smells like that to Stiles, it must be like a sexy sauna type thing for Derek. He almost feels bad, except it’s mostly Derek’s fault, so whatever. He doesn’t get to brood.

“What?” Derek replies, gruff with his stupid one-word answers.

“That was fun,” Stiles quips, and then adjusts on the seat. His thighs are sticking to the fake leather. Skirts kind of suck. “We should do that again.”  
  
Derek doesn’t really answer, except to glance at Stiles again, and maybe grip the steering wheel harder than Stiles ever would (his poor baby isn’t exactly brand new, she doesn’t deserve this kind of abuse, Jesus). Derek doesn’t, however, glance at Stiles’ face—and Stiles has the decency to flush when he realizes it. His entire costume is kind of ruined. Derek ripped his nylon... thingies... to pieces, his skirt is all ruffled and bunched up no matter how much he tried straightening it out, and he thinks a seam popped out on his corset, or something, because something hard and splintery is poking him just below his ribcage.  
  
His boots are still in-tact though, so there’s that.  
  
Derek makes an unexpected turn on the road, and Stiles squints through the dark window to try and figure out where they are. All he can see are lots of trees, waving in the wind (he hopes that’s all it is, freaky shit tends to happen to him) and the dirt road where his jeeps lights are shining. So, they’re not headed back to Stiles’ house, apparently. He can sort of live with that; he hadn’t really come up with a plausible explanation that his dad would actually buy as to why he looks like he... fucked a werewolf in his jeep while wearing women’s clothing.  
  
On second thought, that discussion is never going to happen. Ever.

Still, it would’ve been nice if Derek had _asked_.  
  
“Dude,” he says, “you can’t just kidnap me.”  
  
Derek rolls his eyes. Well, Stiles can’t really see him do it, but he’d bet his life that Derek totally rolled his eyes at him just now. But Stiles doesn’t give in so easily, and reaches over to poke at Derek’s shoulder, except before he can, Derek drops a hand from the steering wheel and grabs Stiles’ wrist, hard.  
  
“Ow,” Stiles protests, but it doesn’t really hurt, and Derek lets go after a second, going back to driving. “That was rude. Actually, you’re rude in general, did you know that?”  
  
It’s kind of ridiculous, because he’d definitely gotten off maybe twenty minutes ago, but his cock twitches underneath his stupid skirt anyway (his underwear are on the floor somewhere, don’t ask), and Stiles huffs, crossing his arms and leaning down in the seat so it’s maybe not quite so obvious that he’s up for round two.  
  
“Stiles,” Derek says.

“What?”  
  
“Stop talking.”  
  
Stiles covers his mouth and looks out the window, and says, “Asshole,” covered up by a fake cough as soon as he thinks he can get away with it. Derek doesn’t even react, he’s such a dick. They pull up to the old house a little while after that, and Stiles marvels—again—at how nice it looks when it isn’t all falling apart, beam-by-beam. Not that it doesn’t still have issues, because let’s not even start on the whole plumbing thing. Not everyone is dog that can go piss in the woods; all Stiles’ is saying.

But seriously, is running water such a big thing to ask for?

“Come on,” Derek says eventually, turning his baby off, letting her rest. It occurs to Stiles’ that she lost her virginity tonight too, and then he grins stupidly until Derek opens his door and hauls him out.  
  
“Hey!” Stiles yells, but then he’s cut off because Derek is kissing him, pressing him against the side of the jeep and pushing Stiles’ lips apart with his tongue. Blunt fingernails press against his hip, and then Derek is pulling back, and looks serious still, when he repeats, “Come on,” and nods his head in the direction of the house.  
  
Stiles would protest, or something, if he could stand up entirely straight. Instead he just fumbles and pushes off the jeep, shutting the passenger door shut before chasing after Derek towards the house. He’s pretty sure round two is a thing that is going to happen, like, right now.

Thank God.

Derek pulls something out an ice chest when they get into the living room, but Stiles has a hard time reading it in the dark when he tosses it at him. Stiles barely catches it, and then makes a face because it’s all wet from the ice. He thinks it’s just water anyway, and says, “Uh, thanks?” before unscrewing the cap and drinking half of it in one gulp. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until just then.  
  
It’s cold too though, and he drops the water bottle on the couch, shaking his hand to get the extra droplets of water off his fingers. Stupid Derek and not having electricity, or plumbing, or heating, or anything normal people have.  
  
He almost jumps when Derek touches his shoulder, but his eyes are adjusting to the dark now, and it’s easier to see him when he starts pulling Stiles over to the stairs. In too much of a hurry, Stiles tries to rush and then trips over the second to bottom step, and somehow—Stiles blames this entirely on Derek—Derek doesn’t catch him, and they both go tumbling down.  
  
He snorts out a laugh though, when Derek gives him this exasperated look, and sighs all dramatically, like he can’t believe what he has to put up with.  
  
“Baby,” Stiles says, and leans back against the stairs in what he thinks is a sexy sort of pose, maybe, “you know you want this.”  
  
He’s a little bit embarrassed, maybe, because Derek has totally good eyesight in the dark, right? But Stiles doesn’t, and it’s not so bad that way. Besides, his cock is half-hard against his thigh now, and that’s distracting enough that he thinks he probably is pretty sexy, if he tries hard enough.  
  
Derek clearly thought so earlier, so whatever.

“You sure about that?” Derek asks though, and he sounds _skeptical_ , the motherfucker, so Stiles lifts up and half jumps on him, only banging his knee on the stairs a little bit. Derek grabs back at him, and then they’re kissing awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs. _Hah!_ Stiles thinks, because he’s pretty sure Derek thinks he’s like, a sex god.  
  
Not that Derek stops kissing him long enough that Stiles can brag about it, but sacrifices must be made.

Derek must finally be over the whole crossdresser theme, because he’s fumbling with the wire clasps at the back of Stiles’ corset, and then makes a noise like he’s pissed off, and pulls harder. Stiles would mourn the fact that this costume was actually fairly expensive, but, well, sex, and he figures he can make Derek buy him one for next year. He could be a sexy witch, or a sexy zombie, or oh, oh, sexy Batman, like a female version.  
  
Except then he thinks about Derek in a Catwoman costume and cracks up, laughing into Derek’s neck, warm and scraggly-rough and sort of another turn-on, which is weird.

Derek rips the corset off of him and tosses it away. Stiles hopes he doesn’t slip on it in the dark later, but doesn’t protest when Derek grabs at his skirt next, just lifts his ass up so Derek can push it down and over instead. He can feel it slide over his skin, and then over his boots and off entirely.  
  
It’s not like it was that much protection, really, but now he really is naked, except for the boots, and it reminds him of questionable hooker porn so ignores Derek’s huff, and the way he starts nuzzling at Stiles’ throat, and reaches down to pull off the boots and what’s left of his ruined nylons. “Okay, okay,” Stiles’ breathes, “your turn,” and starts pulling at Derek’s clothes.  
  
Undressing Derek doesn’t take nearly as long because he stands up to do it, but Stiles gets distracted with helping, because Derek is hard—like, harder than Stiles even, and Stiles is the one with the teenage libido here, so he’s kind of, um, impressed. He bites his lip when he wraps his hand around it, hot and jumping in his grip. _Fuck_ , he thinks, because Derek’s cock shouldn’t be new anymore, he’d seen it and touched it and, and Jesus, Derek had fucked him not half-an-hour ago, his dick had been inside of Stiles’ ass, it shouldn’t be this...  
  
Derek groans low in his throat, thrusting his hips a little, like he can’t help it, and Stiles remembers earlier, the idea of—of getting on his knees and sliding his mouth against Derek’s cock, of swallowing him down and sucking him off. The idea is so good that he wants to—he wants to do it right now. “Stiles,” Derek says, sounding startled, almost, when Stiles pulls him back down the stairs, so that they’re on the actual first floor again. Upstairs is just too far away, but he’s not stupid enough to think he can do this on the stairs without, like, falling and breaking a hip or something.  
  
Derek slides a hand into his hair when Stiles gets back on his knees though, with what he feels like his heart in this throat, beating hard and fast. He rubs his hand against Derek’s cock again, easing his way into it, because yeah, he wants to, but he never has before, so... so he can take a minute to get used to it.  
  
He wraps one hand around Derek’s cock, and places his other one against Derek’s lower stomach, rubbing his thumb in nervous little circles, close enough that he can feel the dark tufts of hair there. _Okay_ , he thinks, and he breathes out slowly when Derek says his name, and he’s only trembling because he’s so turned on, not because he’s nervous that he might suck at this.  
  
Well, sucking is kind of the point anyway, he decides, and then just leans in and goes for it, wrapping his lips around the head of Derek’s dick. Derek says something above him, but it takes Stiles a minute of full concentration to realize breathing through the nose is a good idea, and how to get that down, and then how to make his tongue cooperate. Belatedly, he realizes there are probably how-to videos for this on the internet. Derek doesn’t seem to particularly mind though, and he grins—which is kind of weird feeling, actually, because there’s still a dick in his mouth—with Derek tugging at his hair roughly. Actually Derek’s started to move his hips too, just little forward motions, like he can’t help himself, so he thinks—Stiles thinks he must be doing okay, at least, at the whole blowjob thing.

Plus Derek says, all breathy, “Fuck, Stiles, keep—fuck, your mouth—“ and then gets all unintelligible for a minute when Stiles licks down his dick and grabs a handful of Derek’s balls just as a bonus.  
  
He knew his obsession with the plastic straws they give you at fast food restaurants would pay off one day.  
  
And popsicles. In his award-winning speech, he’ll definitely have to thank the popsicles.

His own cock is hard now, like, all the way, even though it’s still cold in the house and logic dictates that he shouldn’t be quite this turned on by sucking somebody else off, but fuck logic, right? Stiles is into what he’s into, yadda yadda, oh God. “Mmph,” Stiles says, when Derek tugs too hard and pulls him off his cock altogether, panting heavily. Stiles is panting pretty hard too though, and licks at his lips because, wow, slobber, awesome (Derek groans, looking at him, so maybe it is actually awesome, but that’s probably just a dog thing, or, werewolf thing, whatever, Derek will look all constipated if he says any of this out loud, so).  
  
“Just get up,” Derek says, finally, and helpfully tugs Stiles up to his feet. The whole standing naked in Derek’s living room thing would probably weird if Stiles wasn’t so turned on, and if Derek didn’t have a grip on his arm, his hand a hot contrast to everything else, digging into Stiles’ skin, probably hard enough that he’d have one of those momentary white imprints left there when Derek eventually lets go, except it’s definitely too dark to see that.  
  
Derek is pushing him up the stairs anyway, growl rumbling in his throat, like he’s tired of Stiles’ procrastinating. He’s pretty sure blowjobs count as sex though, so it’s not really procrastination so much as taking his sweet time. Figures Derek would be all pushy and impatient though. “I’m going, jeez,” Stiles grumbles, and his dick is so hard that he pressed the heel of his hand up against it, just to relieve some of the pressure. But Derek snarls and pulls his hand back, and Stiles whines loudly about it (and Derek being all controlling, but whose kidding, that’s not a bad thing at all) until they get to Derek’s bedroom.  
  
Derek’s room is just as unfinished as the rest of the house. The walls and floors have been redone, but it’s bare, nothing but a bed in the middle of the room, and the bed is really more of a mattress, because there’s no headboard or anything, and it’s only like a foot off the ground. Whatever, Stiles’ headboard always gets in the way when he jacks off anyway.

He’s not really expecting to get thrown on top of the bed right away though, and it’s enough that he bounces when he lands on the mattress. He swears and lies back when Derek climbs on top of him after. He thinks Derek is moving in to kiss him and moves to meet him, but instead, Derek nips at his chin, which is sort of weird, momentarily, except then he travels down, and Derek is mouthing at Stiles’ throat, his teeth grazing against Stiles’ skin and it’s definitely not weird anymore, it’s just mind-numbingly hot, and Stiles can’t stop squirming, even though Derek has a hand on his hip still, and he’s strong enough that it effectively stops Stiles from being able to move too far in any specific direction.

“Derek, what—“ Stiles groans, and throws an arm up and around Derek’s neck. Derek bites down harder and makes Stiles’ entire body twitch, and his cock start leaking from the tip, more pre-come to ruin the sheets with. The longer Derek doesn’t put a hand on Stiles’ dick, the more Stiles thinks about how terribly he’s going to damage these sheets. On purpose.

“Fuck,” he gasps, and lifts his leg up, trying to buck up underneath Derek, but Derek’s rude werewolf strength keeps him restricted. “Please, I, Derek—“

It isn’t as though Derek isn’t just as hard as he is, because Stiles can feel it, heavy and hanging by his thigh, pressing against Stiles’ leg like Derek’s perfectly comfortable where he is. “Mm,” Derek says, sort of, it’s more of just a noise to reassure Stiles that he’s listening, Stiles thinks, but that doesn’t really mean Derek is paying attention to what he’s saying.  
  
Time to bring out the big guns, Stiles thinks, and gasps on purpose this time, clenching his hand at the nape of Derek’s hair, and he says, “Oh, God, fuck me, please, Derek—I want—I want you, please—“ And okay, maybe that’s not all entirely on purpose, but it’s like fucking eating Pringles, okay, once you start you can’t stop.  
  
Derek makes a strangled groan and then he’s kissing Stiles on the mouth again, and it’s so fucking ridiculous, because Stiles’ is being swept into it again, even though they’ve been doing more than that all night, and—but he’s kissing Derek fucking Hale, and he really, really likes it, the way Derek’s tongue feels against his bottom lip as he pushes Stiles’ mouth open, the way it feels when their noses get in the way and they have to readjust, both of them just as frantic, just as out of breath. Although Stiles is definitely feeling a bit sweaty and gross still, and Derek still looks like some sort of underwear model gone rogue.  
  
Luckily, Stiles can get past that.  
  
Kissing shouldn’t be this... this good, but it is, and it gets even better when Derek finally moves his hand to wrap around the base of Stiles’ dick and squeeze, rubbing his index finger down until he’s playing with his balls too, and fuck, fuck, fuck! “Oh God, oh God,” he blabbers, and he knows he has to sound like an idiot, but—

But.

“Derek,” he breathes, “come on, you—don’t you want to fuck me?” Somehow, he’s not nervous to ask at all, because he thinks the answer is a given, even for him.

Derek almost laughs, but just kind of... huffs, in the dark, and Stiles barely sees it, but there’s the slightest flash of red in his eyes, before they’re that familiar hazel, warm and... ugh, Stiles needs to calm down here, before he starts writing poetry in his head.

“Can I?” Derek asks, rough but oddly quiet, considering how loud Stiles’ is moaning.  
  
“Yes!” Stiles yells, because that’s what he wants. He’s not even sore from the first time, just a little ache that feels good instead, Derek is that fucking good at it, and he’d really like to do it again, and then again, and many more times after that.

“You’re going to let me, Stiles,” he says again though, and he’s jerking Stiles’ off hot and rough, and it’s almost too dry, pre-cum or not, but Stiles just moans, biting his lip and tilting his head up, baring his throat to the air. “You’ll let me take you, fucking _claim_ you.”  
  
“Yes,” Stiles says again, “I want—that, yes, dear God, everything, Derek, claim me or whatever, just do it already, fuck.”  
  
Derek growls and kisses him again, rough, before he claps a hand against Stiles’ side and then forces him up and over, turning him around so that he’s on his hands and knees instead of his back. “Kinky,” Stiles says, only half making fun of Derek, but then yelps when Derek bites him in retaliation, teeth blunt, but still, _biting_.  
  
Stiles really isn’t sure what it says about him that he’s still hard as fuck. Only good things, probably.  
  
“I kind of wanted to see you,” Stiles says awkwardly, after a second, turning as much as he can without losing his balance in order to look back at Derek. Derek rubs a soothing hand over the square of his back though, says, “This’ll hurt less.”  
  
Stiles snorts and then complains loudly when Derek gets off the bed, and objectively, Stiles is thinking lube, condom, all that stuff, probably, but it’s still abruptly cold, and he’s left shivering on Derek’s bed on his hands and knees, so he thinks he can complain all he wants.  
  
“If you were worried about that,” Stiles suggests when Derek gets back and climbs back on the bed, “you maybe shouldn’t have fucked me for the first time in my car, dude. Not that that wasn’t awesome, I’m just saying—shit, that’s cold!”  
  
Derek just fucked him maybe an hour ago, now, so it isn’t like Stiles needs prep, but Derek takes his time with it anyway, and even warms the lube up in his hands after that first sudden glob he’d let dribble down Stiles’ ass just because he’s a dick. Stiles pants heavily against Derek’s bed, his back arching with every movement of Derek’s fingers slipping and pressing up against him, in him. His legs are quivering with the hard attempt to keep from falling down, and he can feel the sweat dripping down his thigh.  
  
It only takes a few minutes for him to resort to begging, saying, “Derek, God, _please_ , just—“ over and over again, biting his lip so hard when Derek finally presses something longer and thicker than his fingers up against Stiles’ ass, and Stiles can feel his entire body behind him, overbearing and putting off heat like a furnace. “Shut up, Stiles,” Derek says, but even his voice sounds haggard, even as he gets a grip on Stiles’ hips and tugs him unceremoniously back, pulling him flush against Derek, no space between them.  
  
“Seriously,” Stiles says, and rocks his hips backward, “fuck me already, I want it, I’m ready, just—do it.”

And then he _does_. Derek groans and Stiles can feel the push, and it’s ridiculous how Derek’s cock feels even bigger than it did before, but it’s a good ridiculous, and the pressure and burn makes Stiles gasp into the sheets, and then muffle curses that he’s sure Derek can hear anyway.  
  
Except, it’s hot, almost too hot, almost too tight, but then Derek says, “That’s it, fuck, you’re perfect for this,” and Stiles pushes back again, wanting to make Derek cry for it (or at least something equally as embarrassing, like begging, or coming first, whatever, he isn’t picky), and Derek’s hips stutter before he slides back, and then presses back in, fast and heavy and so good Stiles can’t help the sounds coming out of his mouth, can’t wrap his head around the sensation of it, just wants it to never stop.  
  
The bed is creaking ominously underneath them, and Stiles’ whines high-pitched when Derek reaches around to wrap a hand around his dick, and he’s coming before he can even think it, nonsensible noise coming out of his mouth the entire time. It’s blinding for a second, and then he’s exhausted and feels almost drained, barely hanging on because all he wants to do is collapse on the bed, but Derek is still behind him, rhythm starting to fail, and every thrust is still sending little tendrils of pleasure through Stiles’ abdomen. He bites his lip hard enough to bleed when Derek’s fingers press hard—too hard—into his hips as he comes to a stop, his cock buried to the hilt inside of Stiles’ ass, and comes.  
  
Stiles feels full and exhausted, his body still twitching uncontrollably underneath Derek’s, but Derek refuses to let him fall, basically just holding him up with freaky werewolf strength. But Stiles’, no matter how worn out, can still feel it when instead of pulling out, Derek seems to surge inside him and get, fuck, get bigger.  
  
“What the hell—“ Stiles says, and tries to haphazardly wave a hand at Derek’s face, but Derek makes some sort of strangled noise in his throat and says, “Fuck, Stiles, stay—stay still, it’ll only hurt for a minute—“  
  
Not panicking, Stiles thinks, he’s not panicking, because he didn’t think about this, but suddenly he knows what’s happening, and he’s kind of horrified that he knows what’s happening, but you can only spend so much time on youtube before you find the weird videos, right? “Oh my God,” he groans, cursing his stupid life, and Derek is impossibly, still growing—uncomfortably stretching Stiles’ to his limits, sudden sharp jabs of pain seeming to strike out at Stiles at random, making his entire abdomen tighten up and probably make it worse, even.  
  
Derek is rubbing soft, soothing circles into his back, but every time he moves even the slightest bit, it sends a new wave of too much and oh, fuck, ouch, through Stiles’ body. Stiles says, “You fucking suck, man,” unable to come up with anything else.  
  
Derek huffs under his breath and replies, “You’ll get used to it. You were made for this Stiles; you open right up for it, like you can’t wait for it. You have no idea how fucking amazing you smell right now, how good you feel—”  
  
“Stop it,” Stiles complains, because Derek doesn’t get to try and dirty talk his way out of how much he sucks right now; Stiles can barely breathe through the conflicting sensations. He kind of wishes he hadn’t come already, because his dick is trying, and failing, to get hard again.  
  
It feels like it finally stops, maybe, and Stiles hisses in pain when Derek seems to, like, roll his hips, a little thrust that makes every nerve in Stiles’ body stand up and yell in protest. Derek chuckles though when he lets loose a string of expletives, and carefully, Derek pushes Stiles down onto the bed, so that he’s no longer holding himself up on his knees. Honestly, the ensuing discomfort makes it hard to decide if that makes it better or not, except Derek’s cock is still buried inside him.

“Can you pull out now?“ Stiles hazards hopefully, but, “No,” Derek growls, and that’s the end of that conversation, because Derek seems to think it’s like, a personal affront that Stiles even suggested it.  
  
“How long?” Stiles asks as Derek adjusts their bodies again. Stiles just goes with it—anything else seems like too much pain and difficulty to make it worth the effort.  
  
“An hour, maybe,” Derek says, gruffly, and then, “It’s supposed to feel good.” Yep, definitely personally affronted by Stiles’ lack of enthusiasm. Except, it doesn’t hurt quite as much anymore, as he gets used to the extra girth, the extra... pull. It maybe even sort of feels good, yeah, and he rocks backward a little, just to test it.  
  
Derek moans, surprised, and Stiles unexpectedly does the same. His dick still isn’t going to get hard any time soon, but he rolls his eyes and says, “You have to let me get used to it. Fucking werewolves. Warning might have been nice too.”  
  
“I told you I was going to claim you,” Derek says.  
  
Stiles nods, and then lets go, his shoulders relaxing against Derek’s chest, right behind him on the bed. He’s so tired, he doesn’t think even the fact that Derek is technically still fucking him—sort of?—is going to be able to keep his eyes open for much longer. “Somehow,” he says, mumbling, “this isn’t what I thought you meant.”  
  
Of course, werewolves. He really should have known better.  
  
... Not that he wouldn’t do it again.


End file.
